


Funny How Love Is

by sweetestsight



Series: Exercises In Free Love [3]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff, Jealousy, M/M, Pining, Pre-Queen, outtakes from the series but doesn't need to be read in order, some angsting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 11:24:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17527826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetestsight/pseuds/sweetestsight
Summary: Things change over the years. Outtakes of four people, their shifting relationships and what they mean to each other.





	Funny How Love Is

**Author's Note:**

> I am officially off anon! I got a few asks about it the last time around, so I figured it would be a good idea since I’m trying to publish a tangled au soon and I know some people were interested in having an easy way to find that. 
> 
> It isn’t really necessary to read the others before this one. This is really just a collection of snippets, and while the other stories in the series are a groundwork there isn’t any relevant plot here! Each one alternates between before and after they got together though, which might help. You’ll figure it out.

_Funny how love is everywhere, just look and see_

One time he saw the two of them kiss.

He wasn’t supposed to. He isn’t even sure they remember it, really. They were stupidly drunk in a local pub, causing quite the sideshow in the corner that housed their booth. Brian was holding Roger’s phone high in the air, slurring something about skyping some girl whose flat Roger had snuck home from the night before. Roger had jumped to grab it from his hands and fallen against his chest.

And their lips had brushed.

It was nothing more than a fleeting touch, a complete accident. It didn’t even count as a kiss—wouldn’t have, and Freddie wouldn’t even have caught it if it wasn’t for the way their eyes had gone wide. They’d both played it off, pretending nothing had happened as Roger finally snatched his phone back and went up to the bar for a round of shots that would make them forget it entirely.

Brian had sat back down and fiddled with the empty pint in front of him. He’d studied the water ring on the table. Then, very slowly, he’d licked his lips.

Freddie had to fight down a smirk.

 

_Funny how love is anywhere you're bound to be_

“Give it back,” he hears around the corner, a low murmur tinged with laughter.

“No.”

“Roger—”

“You want it, you need to come get it.”

He rounds the doorway to the kitchen to see Roger leaning against the counter, mug in hand and a cocky smile on his lips. He looks sleep-rumpled and soft; a shirt Freddie recognizes as Brian’s is hanging loose around his shoulders and covering the tops of his thighs, his hair tousled and his bare feet pink against the tile of the floor. Brian is no better; Freddie is pretty sure those shorts are John’s and whoever’s t-shirt he’s stolen doesn’t quite cover his hips.

He leans against the doorway quietly as he watches them; watches Brian step into Roger’s space and press their lips together deliberately, prying the mug out of his fingers quickly and stepping back before taking a triumphant sip.

Roger gawks, smile turned disbelieving. “So that’s how it is?”

“Mhmm.”

“Come back.”

“I don’t reward thieves,” Brian teases, hiding a smile in his mug as he turns to the stove.

“Please? What if I ask really nicely?”

“You should try that next time you want my tea.”

“What if I ask _really_ nicely?”

Brian looks at him pointedly, biting his cheek. It’s all for show; he doesn’t even wait for Roger to ask before stepping back into his arms and kissing him long and slow.

Freddie smiles to himself before backing out of the room to go wake John up for breakfast.  

_  
Funny how love is every song in every key_

“He’s really good,” Roger insists. “We used to jam all the time before things got so busy. Honestly, he used to blow me away even back then.”

“If he isn’t available he isn’t available,” Brian argues. “If you stopped playing together because you didn’t have time then who’s to say he isn’t too busy right now?”

“Brian,” Roger says impatiently, “we don’t have any time anymore because I joined a band.”

“What, Smile?” he asks, confused. “You’ve been in a band this whole time. Nothing’s changed.”

“Smile wasn’t the same and you know it,” he says softly.

Brian gives him a helpless look.

“Whatever Queen becomes—and it’s becoming something, you know that as well as I do—it’s going to be a full-time gig. It’s already becoming a full-time gig. Hell, I’ve spent more time in the past month looking for a fucking bassist than I’ve spent in class.”

“You shouldn’t skip lectures like that,” Brian says disapprovingly.

“I know! It’s ridiculous because a bassist has been right under our nose this entire time, and I didn’t even think to ask him!”

“You’ve talked to Freddie about this?”

“Mentioned it, yeah. Freddie’s on board. He likes him a lot.”

“They’ve met?”

“You’ve met him, too. A few times now.”

Brian nods slowly. “That friend of yours that’s been over a few times. Right? Long hair?”

“John,” Roger nods. “John Deacon. Yeah.”

“John,” Brian mutters to himself. After a beat he shrugs. “Alright. Yeah, give him a call. I suppose we don’t have anything to lose.”

_  
Funny how love is coming home in time for tea_

When John opens the door he’s already smiling.

Freddie immediately runs around the kitchen island to drag him inside, not even bothering to close the front door before flinging his arms around him; it forces John to take a step back just to retain their balance, hair swaying with the movement as he laughs. He drops his duffel on the floor before returning Freddie’s embrace just as enthusiastically.

“It’s only been a week,” he says, grinning as Freddie nuzzles into his hair.

 _“Only a week!_ ” Freddie gasps. “Are you kidding? It’s been the longest week of my life!”

“What? Break was that hard for you?”

“Oh, it’s fine being with family. It’s being away from you all that I hate.”

“Well, Roger will be back tomorrow morning and then everything will be right in the world,” John replies, taking a good shot at being dry. It would’ve worked too if he weren’t still clinging onto Freddie and smiling like an idiot, but nonetheless he meets Brian’s eyes and raises his eyebrows.

Brian grins and puts his towel down, coming around the island as Freddie begins fussing with John’s bag. He lets John guide him closer with a still-cold hand on the small of his back; reaches up to trace his cheeks with his thumbs, his skin still pink from the chill outside. When John kisses him it’s sweet and soft, a playful brush of tongue that has him smiling hard enough that he’s forced to break away.

“Missed you,” Brian murmurs.

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm. Well, I missed you riding my ass all the time.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather I ride something else?”

It shocks a laugh out of him and John grins back. “I’ll hold you to that. Later, though. Come on. You’re just in time for tea.”

_  
Funny funny funny oh_

There’s a twisted sort of humor that Roger finds in one night stands. It stems somewhere from thinking of all the times he’s left someone’s bed; he thinks of how it must go later in the day, how at some point his faceless lover for the night will have to strip the sheets and wash them and put them back down. He thinks about the number of times he’s done it himself to his own bed, washed away the marks of the night before.

That’s not to say he doesn’t date, because he does. He likes it and all the things that come with it. He has more than enough memories of stripping someone else’s bed for them, of trying to figure out how to operate their washing machine and squinting at unfamiliar bottles of soap. He’s more than familiar with how making a bed is much easier when two people are doing it, trying to work out how to spread and smooth sheets in unison when the night before they’d moved with each other so effortlessly. There’s a joke hidden in there.

But no, the real humor he finds in it is that for all the particular pleasures to be found in the arms of someone new, for all the fun of figuring out what they like and unraveling the whole thing like it’s one big puzzle, the thing he really wants more than anything is the fucking domestic chores that happen after the fact. It doesn’t quite feel complete when he has to sneak out early; he isn’t quite content without having stayed until the next day to struggle with the laundry.

It’s all a little bit ridiculous.

_  
Funny how love is the end of the lies_

Here, laying in a cooling pool of sweat, the sins of the night drying steadily across his chest in the still air, he wonders distantly what he’s going to tell his parents.

He could just not tell them.

But no, they’ll know. He’s been way too happy recently. They’re already a little confused by it, and isn’t that sad?

John’s hair is sticking to his shoulder, damp with sweat. Beyond his head he can see Roger still catching his breath, lips parted. Freddie is drawing nonsense shapes on Brian’s chest, still fluttering around a little nervously like he always does after fucking one of them to within an inch of their life. It’s sweet of him, and he tells him so.

“I like looking after you,” he replies honestly. Sweet; he’s sweet as honey, sweet as berries in summer.

He’ll tell his parents soon. As soon as he figures out how to do it, he’ll do it.

_  
When the truth begins tomorrow comes_

Freddie starts exclusively bringing home blondes. They’re all beautiful and sharp-tongued and never stay the night, ever—if not by their own design then because of Freddie’s pointed looks and long sighs about how he has class early the next morning.

The odd brunette comes home with him now and then, though less frequently. Freddie explains drunkenly one night that he doesn’t have a type, it’s just that everyone is bottle blonde these days and isn’t that _such a shame_ , so many people have such lovely brown hair and yet everyone wants it blonde and straight like _Roger,_ who achieves it naturally, isn’t he so lovely?

Brian chalks the whole thing up to the fact that Freddie is looking for such a specific type of brunette in the first place: long haired and soft spoken, preferably with glossy well-kempt curls the likes of which he could only ever attempt to achieve. They’re not the types to frequent such locales as Freddie usually haunts in the first place—not that Brian would even know, since he isn’t the type to frequent them either. Nonetheless the appearance of such specimens is rare, and when Brian almost has a heart attack upon running into a man that could be his brother as he gets up to fetch a glass of water in the middle of the night he can only be grateful for that fact.

And then somewhere during the indeterminate haze of his sophomore year, classes blurring together and Tim throwing around words like _Humpy Bong_ , Freddie stops bringing people home entirely.

Brian carefully doesn’t think about why.

_  
Tomorrow brings, tomorrow brings love_

The morning after their first time Roger awakes feeling sore. It’s the good ache deep in his arms and the back of his thighs, the comfortable loose-jointed feeling that comes after an excellent time the night before. He shifts against Freddie’s side and catches sight of a faint greenish bruise against the fair skin of his own forearm and is hit with the vivid memory of John, naked and leaning back on his chest, writhing and gripping on for dear life. He grins.

Freddie is sprawled in front of him, skin marred with marks and a satisfied smile on his face even as he sleeps. His neck carries a trail of purple blotches that Roger knows is John’s handiwork; his collarbone carries an indent of teeth, front two incisors leaving a blurred bruise, lateral incisor offset slightly, canine having dug in just a little deeper than the others. Freddie huffs when Roger traces it, eyes flicking open.

“I didn’t know Brian was a biter,” Roger whispers with a grin.

“You were busy,” Freddie says, giggling.

Their movement wakes John, who before then had been happily asleep on Freddie’s chest. He grumbles as he stirs, but Roger can already see his eyes crinkling with satisfaction. He stretches his legs out straight until they tremble and then curls up again, grumbling like the irritated kitten they all know him to be.

“Sore?” Roger asks him sympathetically.

“Mmh.”

“We shouldn’t have pushed you that hard,” he ventures.

“Shut up,” John says, and then he does grin as he sits up, wincing all the while. He stretches again, raising his arms up until his spine pops. He twists, and Roger catches sight of a collection of faint scratches against his shoulder blades. He swallows but John doesn’t seem to notice. “I liked it. If you’re apologizing then I should be, too,” he adds, gesturing at the faint bruise on Roger’s arm.

“What are we apologizing for?” Brian slurs.

“For doing exactly what I wanted them to do, apparently,” John replies.

“Oh,” Brian says, then gets a hand around his waist and drags him back down so he’s sprawled against Freddie again, Brian spooned up against his back. John goes with a faint grunt.

Freddie and Roger share an uneasy look. Of all the people they’d expected to take issue at this, Brian is at the top of the list. “Brian, dear,” Freddie tries. “Did you see his back?”

Brian pulls back a scant few inches to take in the scratches against John’s pale skin. Finally he presses a kiss to one of them before curling around him again with a noncommittal grunt.

“Aren’t you going to apologize?” Freddie prompts.

Brian hums sleepily. “Did you like it?” he asks John.

John grins. “Yeah.”

“Then why would I apologize?”

Freddie frowns. “Wouldn’t you say we were a little rough with him?”

“I liked it,” John repeats.

“He liked it, Fred. Besides, we were all a little rough, weren’t we?”

“I was,” John volunteers.

“See?”

“I was pretty rough,” Roger mutters. “Sorry, Bri.”

“I liked it,” Brian says, imitating John’s crisp vowels and making Roger grin.

John huffs out a laugh, sitting up and propping himself on Freddie’s chest. “We can be very gentle from now on if it bothers you,” he starts.

Freddie shakes his head. “It’s not that, it’s just that I wanted to be careful with you your first time so you didn’t get hurt—”

“He liked it!” Roger says, giggling a little. Brian follows suit.

“I’m okay, Freddie,” John says patiently, ignoring them, “but if you’re that upset about it you can be as gentle as you want tonight and I’ll like that too. I like anything that you three are involved in.”

Roger coos obnoxiously as John pecks Freddie on the lips. Brian throws a pillow at him.

_  
In the shape of things_

Freddie has such lovely fingers.

Maybe it’s the shape of his nails or the sharp curve of his fingertips or the vibrant flecks of paint stuck beneath the edges of his cuticles—Brian isn’t really sure, honestly. Not even John’s presence can ruin this for him, though: the smoothness of his skin as it catches the light from the window, slender digits threading in and out through soft waves of brown hair as he weaves a thin braid distractedly. His fingers catch on a knot the next second and John lets out something like a grunt, brow furrowing as his eyes flutter closed.

Freddie tuts. “Sorry. That must have hurt,” he whispers, petting his scalp once before continuing.

John shifts, knees drawing close to his chest protectively as his cheeks flare brilliantly red, frown still marring his forehead. After a moment his eyes flicker open again as he pretends to watch tv once more, and he reaches almost hesitantly to place his own hand over Freddie’s knee. His hand practically dwarfs it and Brian thinks that’s lovely in its own way, too. His fingers are easily as long as Brian’s own but thick and strong, no doubt warm and soothingly heavy. He squeezes once before relaxing, and Freddie smiles softly to himself.

They form such lovely shapes together, tangled up on the sofa as they are. Brian feels a familiar quick flare of jealousy in his gut and then wonders belatedly who he’s even jealous of: John, sleepy and quiet  and living on a hair’s edge as Freddie toys unknowingly with his nerves or Freddie, happily sitting with a lapful of warm boy, content to play with his hair and catalogue his reactions and bask in his glow while the two of them pretend to be absorbed in whatever’s playing on Netflix.

Maybe he’s jealous of neither. Maybe he’d rather be in the middle and create some sort of new shape in between the two of them—some never-before-seen tangram of limbs and feelings and contradictions.

_  
That's what love is_

“You’re cold,” John chides quietly. He takes Freddie’s hands between his own larger ones, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “You’re freezing. What were you doing out there? Throwing snowballs?”

“I was just walking back from class. You know how cold it is.”

“Still, this won’t do. How are we going to rehearse with you like this? We can’t have our pianist struggling with cold fingers.”

“I guess you better delay rehearsal so you can warm me up, then,” Freddie says seriously. When John looks up at him with a smirk he grins.

 

_That's what love is_

“Would you put a jacket on?” Brian calls from where he’s doing dishes. “It’s about two degrees outside!”

“Gosh! Alright! Last I checked you weren’t my mum!” Roger yells back, jogging quickly to Freddie’s room. He takes the first article of clothing he finds and drags it on quickly before running back to the front door.

“Don’t go out in that. What did I just say?”

“It’s a jacket!”

“It’s a crop top sweatshirt and it is _not_ the same thing!”

 

_Funny how love can break your heart so suddenly_

In the early, _early_ days of Queen Brian had had a girlfriend.

“Chrissie,” she’d introduced herself with a smile, and Freddie had shook her hand and greeted her warmly. Roger isn’t quite sure how he’d pulled that off; later, after she and Brian had fucked off on a date somewhere and he and Freddie had fucked off to a bar to get absolutely trashed for a reason neither of them needed to voice, Freddie would speak up about just how much he disliked her on principle.

But no, Roger remembers that first moment vividly: Freddie had been warm and polite, nearly professional in his manners. They’d gotten along.

She’d probably gotten on with John the best out of the three of them, to the point they were practically friends. Roger knew it made Brian’s blood steam a little, that the boy he carried such a convoluted rivalry for was so close with his girlfriend. That was John, though: quiet and coy and alluring. They all knew that. They’d fallen into it themselves.

None of that mattered, though. In the end she and Brian hadn’t worked out for reasons he wouldn’t disclose. In the end John had merely shrugged at the loss of his new friend, coy smile still perfectly in place. In the end Freddie had been the perfect supportive friend, telling Brian she didn’t deserve him in the first place and offering him ice cream, movies, or enough alcohol to get roaringly drunk over the whole thing.

In the end Roger hadn’t said a word. He’d barely exchanged a handful with Chrissie. He’d never talked Brian about her. Her leaving had been treated in much the same way because he knew words weren’t required. One look at the half-mad guilt lingering in Brian’s eyes and he’d understood the whole story in a heartbeat. He’d lived it out enough times on his own by then.

“I think you’re the most vengeful out of all of us when it comes to love,” Freddie had disclosed that night at the bar, when Chrissie was still looking to be a long-term fixture in their lives.

Roger had raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”

“Don’t _oh_ me. You know what I’m talking about.”

That was fair. Roger had smiled around his straw. “You’re a close second,” he said, and Freddie had laughed.

_  
Funny how love came tumbling down with Adam and Eve_

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Roger asks him. He’s basking in the sun a little as they walk, chewing on the straw of his smoothie contemplatively.

“I think so,” Freddie tells him. He eyes the man in front of him: the posters covered in propaganda, the box of pamphlets, the endless diatribe of hate speech spilling out of his megaphone. “He might think we’re chicks.”

“That’s fine,” Roger says.

“He might not be able to tell gender at all, actually. He probably won’t see our faces too well.”

Roger throws his finished smoothie into a bin. “Even better.”

Freddie takes his aviators off and folds them into his pocket. “Do you think the mixed-race thing will bug him?”

“God, I hope so.”

Freddie catches his eye and tries to keep his laughter at bay.

“Homosexuality is a sin!” the man with the megaphone yells.

Roger steps into Freddie’s arms and pulls him in for a dirty kiss, all slow tongue and hungry lips and hands in hair. He tastes like mangoes. Freddie dips him as the students around them cheer.

_  
Funny how love is running wild feeling free_

Tim enters their makeshift studio with his bass in hand, freezes, and then closes the door behind himself slowly. “Any reason why you two are both soaking wet?”

Brian glares at Roger. They’re both sitting on the edge of the drum riser, towels around their shoulders, tea in hand. Roger’s hair is a limp, sodden mess and Brian’s own is even worse. His curls have fallen into waves that are somehow still horribly frizzy to the point he’s not sure all the product in the world will fix it.

“We ran here in the rain,” Roger starts.

“No,” Brian says, “you made us run here in the rain. There’s a difference.”

Roger sneezes pathetically and Brian’s heart flops over in his chest.

“Why didn’t you take the bus?” Tim asks.

“It didn’t come,” Roger tells him. “I didn’t want to be late again.”

“You should have phoned. I could have picked you guys up.”

Brian’s memory supplies him suddenly with the image of Roger sprinting in front of him, laughing loudly as his platform boots splash through a puddle. Those shoes will probably never be the same, but in the moment he’d seemed completely innocent and carefree. They’re probably both going to catch colds now, but Brian can’t quite bring himself to regret that.

“We’ll call next time,” Roger says. “Thanks, Tim.”

“Sure,” Tim says, still looking between the two of them. “Now how about we get this rehearsal on the road, hmm? We’ve got a show in three days.”

_  
Funny how love is coming home in time for tea_

John jiggles his key in the door. Out of the four copies he’d been given the most ragged and dented one, largely because he’s the only one who knows how to make it work.

Most of the time. Some days it can be finicky.

Fortunately the door swings open from the inside before he can just give up and try to batter it down. Freddie is standing there with a tiny, surprised smile. Somewhere in the apartment opera is playing, and the kettle is just starting to steam on the stove.

“You’re home early,” he says. He closes the door quietly and then tugs John’s coat off his shoulders before he can do it himself.

“Lecture got cut short,” John says. “I didn’t think anyone would be home.”

“My studio class got cancelled,” Freddie tells him. “I’m relieved, between you and me. I’m nowhere near as caught up as I should be.”

“Should you perhaps be using this time to catch up on work?” John asks him with a teasing smile.

Freddie gasps in mock affront. “And miss out on tea with one of the loves of my life? How could I?”

When Brian and Roger finally come home nearly an hour later, shaking water off jackets and frowning as raindrops cling to hair, it’s to the sight of their two boyfriends warm and dry and tangled up in a pile of blankets on the couch, teapot long since gone cold beside them, La Boheme playing somewhere in the other room as they explore each other’s mouths in the lazy sort of way they only allow themselves when they know they have all the time in the world.

It’s a nice thing to come home to.

_  
Funny, funny_

One of the first times he’d ever been alone with John it’d been on that very couch, Freddie boredly pretending to update his planner and John uncharacteristically quiet next to him. It’s uncharacteristic simply because Freddie had gotten into the rhythm of his rambling, at least when Brian isn’t nearby. For some reason the presence of their fourth musketeer has John stammering into silence, hands unerringly still and eyes carefully blank yet observant like he’s still trying to figure him out.

Freddie hopes that changes soon. He has the feeling Brian would like the way John’s voice changes when he’s talking unguardedly, words losing their measured rhythm and rushing over one another more like a line of ducklings than a row of text.

They aren’t doing that here, though. His hands aren’t still either, restless and twitchy. The fourth time his eyes drift to the long case resting against the wall Freddie rolls his own and turns to him.

“You can play here, you know,” he says.

John’s eyes go wide. “I don’t want to distract you.”

“Oh, nonsense. I never get to hear you play like this.”

John glances at his bass one more time before going to retrieve it slowly. He returns to the couch but sits at Freddie’s feet instead of beside him, looking up at him questioningly, and Freddie has to clear his throat to chase some _very not innocent_ thoughts from his mind.

“What should I play?” John asks him.

“Whatever you want,” Freddie murmurs, waving a hand broadly. “I don’t know. You haven’t played solo since your audition. Wow me.”

John thinks for a minute before licking his fingers with a very pink tongue. Then he breaks out into a meticulously quick solo rendition of Beethoven’s fifth.

Freddie’s jaw practically hits the floor.

(“Perfect pitch,” John would explain later. “It makes things a little easier.”

Freddie’s jaw would practically hit the floor then, too.)

 

_Funny, oh_

“It’s not funny,” Freddie tells him.

Brian can’t tell if he’s giggling because he’s genuinely amused or if the cold has just sunk that deep into his bones. He stamps his feet to try to gain some feeling back into them, giggling all the while. “It’s a little funny.”

“Shut up. You’re just giddy. It isn’t funny.”

Brian only holds back for a few seconds before breaking out into a fresh peel of giggles through his chattering teeth.

“ _Brian,_ ” Freddie whines, lips trembling from the cold. The flashing red lights are throwing his cheekbones into even sharper relief. “Don’t laugh at me!”

“I’m sorry,” Brian gets out, forcing himself to sober. “I’m sorry, love. I know it was a mistake.”

“Thank you,” Freddie huffs, pulling his bathrobe closer around himself.

Brian manages to prevent his laughter from slipping through until he sees the dozen or so firemen who went to investigate filter through the door of their apartment. “I just can’t believe,” he says, and then snaps and begins laughing again. “I can’t believe you microwaved a can of soup—”

“Brian!”

“Which you can’t microwave because it’s metal, and then you didn’t even open it! You can’t microwave sealed containers, Fred!”

“Stop!” Freddie whines again, though he’s finally beginning to laugh, too.

A man decked out in firefighting gear and easily half a head taller than even Brian stands before them, holding aloft the burnt, exploded remains of a can. A blob of black goo drips out of the hole in the side slowly and hits the floor with a sad plop. “Does this belong to either of you?” he asks seriously.

Brian tries his best to keep a straight face. He really does.

_  
From the earth below to the heavens above_

It’s quiet here. It’s so quiet he can feel his ears desperately searching for anything with which to ground himself to reality: a single noise outside, a buzz anywhere in the apartment, Brian’s rhythmic breathing down the hall. He hears nothing. It’s silent.

He slides out of bed as quietly as he can, wary of breaking the oppressive quiet of their living space. He pads down the hall noiselessly, about to turn toward the kitchen when a familiar red glow from the doorway to the living room stops him. Rounding the corner he catches sight of a familiar red flashlight propped up on the coffee table to shine its barely-visible light on the star chart spread out there. The light is catching on Brian’s curls, loose and free as he peers through his telescope.

“Brian,” Freddie whispers.

Brian starts and turns. “You should be resting,” he says, and just like that the odd spell surrounding the apartment is broken.

“So should you.”

“Sometimes we astrophysics people need to work through the night. You arts folks are children of the sun, aren’t you? You should be asleep.”

“Can’t.” At Brian’s probing look he rushes to continue. “It’s just that it feels so silent around here sometimes, dear. During the day it isn’t so bad. People are always running to and fro and you know how it can be sometimes. There are plenty of distractions, but here…” he trails off, searching Brian’s eyes until he’s able to ground himself again. “I get so lonely sometimes. I know it’s ridiculous. We’re surrounded by people in this building, but sometimes I feel like I’m the only one awake in the entire universe.”

Brian studies him for a long moment, something hesitantly soft written across his expression. The red from the flashlight is catching on his cheekbones and the delicate lines of his lips. Freddie’s sleep-addled mind wanders through the images emblazoned across his eyelids from long days of class, the shades of hell and blood and passion and fire. If only Bosch had seen all those years ago what Freddie is seeing now; if only Botticelli had wandered into a living room during the witching hour; if only Munch or Martin had a Brian May in their lives to show them exactly how gentleness can show its curl-framed face in even the coldest moments of life. Maybe then they’d associate the color red with something sweet and warm and whimsical.

Brian licks his lips _(red, red red)_ before he speaks. “I’m awake,” he says. “You can sit with me if you’d like.”

And that’s how Freddie ends up wrapped up in half of Brian’s blanket, The Rain Song playing through Brian’s tinny phone speakers just to shatter the silence that much further, his voice a soothing running narration of the cosmos as Orion and his dogs chase the Scorpion across the sky. Somewhere between Betelgeuse’s sparkle and the swirling particles of the Horsehead Nebula Freddie is drifting back off to sleep, restless mind finally soothed by Brian’s warmth and smell and sounds and touch.

If he drools on Brian’s shoulder in his sleep Brian is kind enough not to say anything about it the next day.

_  
That's how far and funny is love_

Brian spends two weeks at the beginning of summer vacation far away from the rest of them, in a dark site somewhere where he can witness the galaxy spinning across the sky in peace. He’d murmured about it as he’d fallen asleep for the past month or so, going on about the research potential and the general beauty of it all. _It’s like you’re looking at it from outside of the atmosphere,_ he’d mumbled into Roger’s shoulder. _Like nothing you’ve ever seen._

Roger wonders if he’s looking at it right now.

He goes outside for a smoke and squints up at the sky. There are only a handful of stars visible through the haze of light pollution. Brian had taught him their names once, but he can’t quite remember them. One of them is Sirius, he knows. The brightest one in the sky, but whenever he thinks he sees it Brian laughs softly into his hair. _That’s Venus, Rog._

He wonders what he’s doing now. He wonders if he’s peering at it all through a telescope or just craning his head up to take it all in the way people did thousands of years ago. He pictures him in pitch darkness with stars in his eyes and a twitch in his fingers and wonder clogging the rational part of his mind.

He wonders if he misses them, then shakes his head. It’s a stupid question.

Tossing the cigarette butt aside, he heads inside to where his other lovers wait.

_  
At any time anywhere_

The sadness can catch up with him all at once sometimes. That’s the true inconvenience of it, and he uses the word inconvenience in the most rudimentary of ways because the truth is it’s so much more. It feels crippling. No, that’s too much. There’s a word he’s looking for, some sort of middle ground, but he can’t find it. There’s no middle ground for him, either. It all feels woefully inadequate just like he does. His words aren’t enough. He isn’t enough. He’ll never be enough.

Normally it’s Freddie who he goes to in times like this—Freddie with his inner peace and outer elegance, Freddie who fills the spaces between words with just enough noise and fidgeting and color to take his mind off things. When he pushes the door open his roommate isn’t there, though. Instead his newest bandmate is seated on the couch, taking a quick glance up from his Instagram feed to meet Brian’s eyes steadily.

“Hi,” John greets. “Freddie just ran out. He said he lost his keys somewhere and he didn’t want to lock us out while he went to pick up food. We got you some stir fry.”

He’s quickly drifting into rambling territory. If Brian was in any better of a mindset he’d find it endearing. As it is he just drops his bag and toes his shoes off.

“Oh, Roger said he’s coming over later. He has a song he wants to run by us.”

“Great,” Brian gets out, crossing toward his room. “That’s great.”

He can feel John’s eyes on him as he goes, but he doesn’t expect him to say anything. He stops more out of surprise than any actual desire to stay and chat when John hesitantly calls out, “Brian, wait.”

Brian turns, eyes trained on the window and away from John’s face.

“Did I—” he starts, then grunts in annoyance. “Are you mad at me about something?”

“I’m just not in a great mood, John,” he starts.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Brian looks at him skeptically.

“It’s a once in a lifetime offer, here. Take it or leave it.”

Brian swallows. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Do you want to be distracted from it?”

Hesitantly, he nods.

When Freddie comes back ten minutes later to them harshly debating their way through the dictionary, a half-finished game of scrabble spread out in front of them, he shakes his head. Brian catches his eyes and gives him a tiny exasperated smile as John waves the rule sheet through the air to emphasize his point and Freddie full-on grins back.

_  
If you gotta make love do it everywhere_

“You’re gonna get us arrested,” John breathes against his lips.

Roger cackles, or as quiet a cackle as he can manage. “Only if we get caught.”

“We’re gonna get caught. You can’t stay quiet to save your life.”

“Is that a challenge?”

He gets a long-suffering look for that one. It doesn’t matter. He already knows he’s won. John’s got a red glow in his cheeks and the calculating look he always gets when he’s turned on and trying to formulate a plan as to how to fix that and yeah, there is no way he’s leaving here without getting fucked. “They’ll hear us,” John tries anyway, because he’s a good person.

Roger looks up at him through his eyelashes. “The World Cup is on. This mall is empty. You know that. Nobody is going to hear us. Even if they did they wouldn’t report us. They never do.”

“And you know that how?”

“What I got up to in freshman year is none of your business,” he says primly.

He can tell John doesn’t want to rise up to that bait. He can also tell he’s going to anyway. John’s eyes go dark as he spins him around and presses him into the wall, his chest warm and hard against Roger’s back. His eyes meet Roger’s in the mirror spanning the wall next to them, and arousal fizzes through his blood like static at the way they look together: Roger’s hair already a little tousled, lips pink and body partially hidden by John’s own. John finds his wrists and pins them at the small of his back. “Are you really,” he says, then pauses to bite at his neck, “trying to seduce me in a fucking changing room right now?”

“John,” Roger gasps. His eyes flutter shut momentarily as John sets to work leaving a love bite there instead. “I’m not trying to seduce you in a changing room.”

“Mh?” John hums.

“I’m _succeeding_ in seducing you in a changing room,” Roger says with a grin.

John’s eyes go dark. Roger knows he hates that, knows that he despises the way Roger can play him this easily. He craves being in charge so much sometimes, and for Roger to act out like this simply because he loves the repercussions throws him into an angry confusion of wanting to punish yet knowing the punishment will only be seen as a reward. It’s almost too easy, mostly because the puzzle itself is easy to begin with. They want the same thing. No point making it so complicated.

“I’m gonna wreck you,” John says mostly to himself, and Roger grins. Mission accomplished.

_  
That's what love is, that's what love is_

Brian used to dream of having people he paid good money to look after things like this. That’s the dream, is it not? To have assistants and managers and technicians and engineers and makeup artists and physicians at your beck and call, keeping the band oiled and running as it trekked across the globe?

He gave up on that part of the dream pretty early on. He doesn’t need it. He has John.

“I dated a violinist once. Concert mistress,” John confides in a murmur, then grins when Brian laughs quietly. “Don’t judge. She taught me some useful stuff. Let me just try, okay?”

He’s sat criss crossed on the floor of their makeshift studio in a perfect mirror of Brian’s own position, their knees a scant few centimeters apart. They can’t get much closer like this without seriously breaking some social rules, but Brian thinks that’s for the better. The friendship they’re building between each other, balanced precariously on a confusing mixture of jealousy and protectiveness for their two best friends, is thin and made of glass. Too much pressure and it will shatter; too much pressure and it’ll never grow into the delicately beautiful thing Brian is sure they can coax out of it.

Brian keeps his eyes fixed on that tiny distance between their knees as he extends his cramped, aching left hand into John’s space.

“Here,” John says quietly, taking it. Brian thinks back suddenly to a day not too long ago, watching Freddie and John curled up on the couch. The thoughts he’d been taunted with are proven correct; his fingers are warm and strong, capable around Brian’s.

He circles a thumb carefully over his knuckles, working his way down each finger with sure movements. Brian lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and feels something in his spine relax, allowing himself to be manipulated under John’s sure grip as he moves steadily down his hand.

“Is that helping?” he murmurs.

Brian starts. He hadn’t noticed how quiet it had gotten. Usually the silence between the two of them is unnerving, but Brian can hardly bring himself to care. “Thanks,” he says quietly. “Yeah.”

“It’s easy to get tensed up like this if you don’t take breaks while you practice, you know. It’s really bad for you. It can give you headaches too, apparently.”

“Is that what she told you?” At John’s raised eyebrow he swallows the roughness out of his voice and clarifies. “The violinist.”

“Oh.” John smiles to himself. “Yeah, her and everyone else in the orchestra. I got pretty good at it so they all wanted help after practice.” He flips Brian’s hand over in both of his own carefully, his palm faced up toward the sky. He rubs over it once and then firmly presses both thumbs outward, gradually working the tension out of his tendons as he works toward the heel of his palm.

“You are,” Brian finds himself saying.

“Hmm?”

“Good at it.”

“Oh. Thanks,” he says, and then with a cheeky smile and a tiny laugh, “I know.”

That has Brian huffing out a laugh, too. He quiets a moment later when John finally moves to his wrist, tracing over his skin gently before kneading into the muscle there in a way that has his whole arm going limp. There’s an intimacy to this that he wasn’t expecting. It’s such a simple thing, an innocent touch, and yet he feels unusually exposed.

How many people have touched him like this? He’s shared beds, shared feelings, been in love and been close to people, but how many people have touched him like this? He’s not sure. He’s not sure anyone ever has.

“Just do me a favor and don’t tell Roger,” John tells him. “I’ve made it this long without him finding out and I know he’ll just abuse his privileges.”

“Abuse his privileges?” Brian ventures.

“Yeah, he’ll be in here one second and then back to practicing as soon as I fix whatever problem he’s caused.”

Practicing. “That reminds me, I need to finish that song tonight.”

John meets his eyes. “Take a break.”

“It’s almost done.”

“You’ve been playing since before me and Roger got here. It’s been literal hours. If you’re in pain you should take a break for the night.”

Brian frowns.

“Sleep on it. I know I can’t stop you, but you’ll be stronger in the morning. If you practice all night you’ll just end up in pain again.”

That’s probably true. Still though, the pull of it is difficult to resist. He looks longingly at his guitar, the red of the wood glowing invitingly in the lamplight. “I’ll see what I can do,” he ventures, because that’s the best he can promise.

The look John gives him tells him he knows, but he kindly chooses not to comment. “Do you want me to do the other one?” he asks instead.

His picking hand isn’t sore. He nods anyway.

 

_Funny how love is everywhere, just look and see_

John wakes him up with a hand slowly rubbing any remaining tension out of his neck before moving gradually down to his shoulders. He wasn’t aware that he had any tension left to lose, still shaking off sleep as he is. Somehow he still manages to relax even further onto John’s chest, face tucked over his shoulder. When he finally gives in and shifts a little so he can relax every muscle in his body against him and breathe in against his hair John lets out a little laugh.

“Good morning,” he whispers, working at the knot that’s refused to budge from beside Roger’s shoulder blade for several weeks now.

Roger groans unintelligibly in response.

“I’ll take it that’s helping?”

“Fuck,” he replies succinctly, and then, “Someone should make pancakes.”

“Ah yes, our very own Roger Taylor, ever grateful for our love and affection,” John chides. Off to his left Roger can hear Freddie laughing into his pillow.

“Not _you_ ,” Roger whines. “You can’t leave. You’re stuck here forever now. This is your life now.”

“I’m stuck?”

“Yes.”

“How tragic,” John snickers.

“Someone should make pancakes, though.”

“I suppose that means me?” Brian asks from somewhere on his other side.

Roger opens one eye to look at him, craning his neck slightly. It makes John’s fingers dig in that much deeper and he full-out moans, not even bothering to keep it in. “Please, Bri? The gig last night was so long and it fucked up my arms so bad and I didn’t have any time to eat beforehand. Did you know that? I had fucking _granola_ for dinner like a rabbit and then the show went on forever. We must’ve been playing for four hours.”

“It was one and a half,” Brian says with a fond smile, kissing his forehead as he scoots out of bed. “And you’re very lucky we love you so much.”

“I know,” Roger says with a grin, and though Brian bites his cheek he isn’t quite able to keep a sweet smile off his face.

_  
Funny how love is anywhere you're bound to be_

Roger had been given a pamphlet from a woman who’d almost become his music teacher had he had the funds. As it was she’d just ended up becoming a contact when he’d first taken up drums, helping him find good sticks for cheap and directing him to gigs. And giving him pamphlets.

‘What to expect from your first audition’. That’s what it’d been called.

There was a section about what to wear, a part about what they might expect you to know how to play and a few bits about preparing pieces. Roger had flipped through it and starred the things he thought might be helpful and then promptly buried it somewhere in the bottom of his desk drawer and forgotten about it.

Years later he tore a stub of paper with a phone number on it from the bottom of a bright yellow flyer on a bulletin board at his prospective university. He’d taken those memories to heart as he’d gotten ready for an audition the following week. His clothes were cool but not outlandish. His hair looked good. He was ready to improv whatever they wanted, but he had a few songs in mind should they request a solo.

And then he arrived.

His memory of that damned pamphlet is pretty limited, but he’s pretty sure there was no section about what to do if you instantly found yourself in love at first sight with the dumb lanky guitarist with straightener-burned hair and gentle, sad eyes.

_  
Funny how love is every song in every key_

“Sing to me,” Roger whispers into the warm, still air that surrounds their bed, and Brian does.

It’s just snatches of a melody, hauntingly sweet yet still enchantingly dark. Roger feels like he can’t breathe, like he can’t even blink. He’s entranced. It doesn’t even have words and yet he feels like he can tell exactly what Brian is telling him: longing, love and yearning with a hint of envy and a taste of regret. All he knows is Brian in front of him, John curled up behind him, Freddie’s breathing echoing from somewhere on the other side of the bed, the air vibrating with the tune.

“What is it?” he whispers finally when Brian tapers off.

Brian swallows. “I don’t know yet. Something about family, maybe. About growing up.”

“Reminds me of the sea,” Freddie murmurs.

A corner of Brian’s mouth quirks up; Roger watches it raptly. “Why’s that?” Brian asks.

“I’d jump into it to find you,” Freddie replies, and Roger feels John smile against the back of his neck and curl closer. “Leave my ship and swim across the ocean to get to you. Wash up on your tide just to hear you one last time.”

“Before I eat you up?” Brian snickers softly.

“Are you _offering?_ ”

“If anyone’s a siren here it’s you, Fred.”

“Why’s that?”

“You know why,” John pipes up. “Pretty voice and such sharp teeth.” A second later lets out a yelp that tapers off into giggles at what Roger can only guess must be Freddie biting at his neck.

“Maybe you’re just that tempting, Odysseus dear,” Freddie laughs, and Roger feels John turn briefly to accept a smacking kiss.

“What about me?” Roger asks, not to be left out.

“You,” Brian breathes, then takes his hands. “What about you?”

“Where do I fit in?” Roger asks impatiently.

“You,” Brian says again, and begins kissing along his knuckles. He can feel John breathing against his shoulder again, can feel Freddie’s soft fingertips stroking along his ribs. “Our perfect,” _kiss,_ “calm,” _kiss,_ “beautiful sea, blue and clear until a tempest blows in. What must we sacrifice for safe passage?”

Roger has to bite down a smile and he can see Brian do the same. John huffs a breath of silent laughter against his shoulder and Roger tangles their fingers together where they lay across his waist, squeezing once. “What must you sacrifice?”

Brian is full on grinning now, struggling to tamp it down long enough to press one last kiss to the hollow beneath his thumb. “What must we give for safe passage home?”

Roger pulls his hand away to tangle it instead in Brian’s hair and tug him closer. “You’re already home,” he whispers before finally dragging him in for a real kiss.

_  
Funny how love is when you gotta hurry_

“Sorry,” John pants. He skids into the room in his platforms, almost taking out a few music stands in the process.

Roger raises his eyebrows. “For?”

“I’m late.”

“This is hardly a standing appointment. You can take your time.”

John shakes his head, hair flying. He opens his case quickly and slings his bass over his shoulder, raising it close to his ear to tune it. “I don’t like being late to this. The later I am, the less time we have.”

Roger twirls a drumstick thoughtfully. “Well, I guess we better make every minute count, then.”

John tilts his head with a rueful smile and plugs his bass in, turning the volume up before running through a quick riff they’d been toying with for the last few days. Just like that they’re off.

_  
'Cause you're late for tea_

Brian gives him a skeptical glare as soon as he walks in the door.

“Sorry,” he mutters bashfully. “I had a painting final to finish. I lost track of time.”

“Roger drank your tea,” Brian replies, turning back to the textbook on his lap.

Freddie warily drops his coat and bag by the door, making his way quietly over to the couch and sitting down next to him. “I’ll make it up to you,” he says, hesitating for a minute before pressing a kiss to his jaw.

He almost misses the way Brian’s lips tug down at the corners like he’s trying not to smile. “You better,” he says primly, and shuts his book.

_  
Funny funny funny oh_

“This isn’t a fucking joke to me,” Roger hisses, eyes wet. “Why can’t they see that? Two of my closest friends in the world are blatantly in love with each other and they won’t do a damn thing. I just want them to be happy. Why is that so difficult?”

John’s only met Brian and Freddie a handful of times, but he thinks the answer is pretty obvious. It’s funny in its own way, a divine comedy playing out between the three of them: fiery Roger, gentle Brian, sweet Freddie. John’s tied in there somewhere too, caught on the outskirts and unseen by the rest of them: invisible John Deacon.

That’s the funniest bit of all.

_  
Tomorrow comes_

“Good morning, love,” Brian whispers and shoots him a sleepy grin, wary not to wake their two bedmates.

John smiles back and pulls him closer, sheets rustling around them like the rain through the trees outside. “Hi, baby.”

 

_tomorrow brings_

It feels like the four of them are moving steadily toward something. The hope in Roger’s eyes when Freddie blows him a kiss as he leaves for the art studio in the early hours of the morning make him think he’s feeling it, too.

_  
Tomorrow brings love in the shape of things_

Sometimes Roger’s fingers brush against the rough edges of the key in his pocket—the key to their flat that they share, where they all live together—and he realizes with sudden clarity just how lucky he is.

_  
At any time_

It’s shockingly early in the evening, the sun barely set, dinner still cooking, Roger and Freddie barely ten minutes into _Dirty Dancing_ , when Brian comes home from his most recent date. “It didn’t work out,” he says with a simple smile, then takes the spot between them on the couch.

 

_Anywhere_

“I’m not gonna be able to cover that up,” Freddie gasps in mock consternation.

Roger pulls his teeth away from his neck, leaving a dark mark behind. “I know,” he says, cheeky.

_  
If you gotta make love do it everywhere_

“He’s not interested,” Roger says sweetly to the woman next to John at the bar. She pauses, looks between them knowingly, and then smiles before leaving. Roger blinks when John shoots him a glare. “What? You weren’t interested, were you?”

_  
That's what love is_

So this is love. He buries his nose in the crown of John’s head and pulls him in, close enough that his sniffles come as wet puffs of air against his collarbone.

So this is love. Roger wraps his arms around both of them and coos softly, rubbing his cheek against John’s like a cat.

So this is love. Freddie shoots him a tired smile that tells him everything is alright. They’re alright this time. They’ll be okay, just like they always are. They’re still drawn together by that one thing, through it all.

So this is love. So this is love. So this is love.

 

_that's what love is_

“I’m John Deacon. I don’t think we’ve met.”

“Well, I’ve heard great things,” Freddie says conspiratorially. “I’m Freddie, and that sourpuss over there is Brian.”

“Freddie,” Brian chides. “You can’t keep introducing me like that. We’ve talked about this.” He dries his hands quickly on a dish towel before extending one to John. “Brian May. Hello. Nice to meet you.”

John shoots Freddie a coy smile and takes Brian’s hand, and Roger feels something warm and heavy settle in his chest. It hits him like a bag of bricks all at once, so hard he almost has to sit down. He wants to laugh as much as he wants to bang his head into a wall because he can’t believe he’d missed it. That’s it, that feeling like the universe is expanding from the point between his ribs.

_Oh._

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know if anyone else has a homophobic/racist campus preacher at their school. We’ve got one and a favorite pastime of students is making out with a same sex friend/partner/bystander in front of him. It’s good family fun on a slow afternoon between classes, I guess? The goal is to be raunchy and gay enough that he tries to physically break you up, because as soon as he touches a student he’s banned from campus for a few months. It’s only ever happened twice and is a very coveted badge of honor among us kids. 
> 
> The song Brian sings is probably the first bare-boned version of Sail Away Sweet Sister because I am very much playing around with the timeline here.
> 
> Anyway, thanks so much for reading and I hope everything kind of made sense. As always, I’d absolutely love to hear what you think! Does anyone have a favorite section?


End file.
